


Between the Darkness and the Light

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Drama, Explicit Language, Romance, Slytherin, The Quidditch Pitch: Slytherin Common Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-26
Updated: 2007-06-12
Packaged: 2018-10-27 15:45:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10812030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: How well can you really know someone? Hermione/Snape centric, post-HBP.





	1. The House by the Sea

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

  
Author's notes: This is my first story. I hope you like it.  


* * *

_Faith never doubts in the darkness what has been shown in the light._  
 **~*~**  
 _Damn it!_ Hermione mentally cursed as a branch snagged her hair.

“Crookshanks, here kitty-kitty,” she pleaded again, ducking under a massive branch and pushing her way through a thicket of tall grasses just beyond the edge of the Quidditch pitch, crossing into the perpetual twilight that marked the boundary of the Forbidden Forest. The carriages to Hogsmeade station were due to leave after lunch. Somehow, Crookshanks always knew when holiday break approached, and he was having absolutely nothing to do with his travel basket, hence the impromptu foray through the Centaur pasture just inside the treeline. The temperature dropped precipitously as the sunlight was filtered by the overhead canopy of ancient trees, making her shiver and clutch her school robe tightly over her thin cotton blouse and well-worn dungarees.

A faint meow followed by an annoyed snarl beyond the grassy circle spurred her forward through the obstructions of another clump of trees and more low-hanging branches.

“Here, kitty-kitty... I’ve some nice kippered herring back at the castle for you....” _and a flea dip you’ll never forget, too,_ she added uncharitably, as she scrambled through the clinging plants and emerged into another clearing, breathing a sigh of relief as the sunlight returned, warming her face and hands. Straightening up, she felt a shadow fall over her, and she froze.

The man who had been waiting silently for her to enter the glen was now holding his wand to the side of her neck. A second man stood in the centre of the small clearing, a struggling orange cat hissing and spitting in his arms.

He smiled. “Good kitty.”

**~*~**

Side-along Apparition compressed everything around her. Hermione closed her eyes, blocking out the blurred colours, as her physical reality was rent asunder, and her ears filled with the drone of a hundred angry bumblebees.

With a lurch, the ground became firm underneath her feet once more. A strong breeze blew across her sweat-soaked skin, and a gull’s plaintive cry sliced through the air. Unconsciously, she touched her lower lip with the tip of her tongue and tasted the tang of the salt spray settling on her skin. Her eyes flew open as she was shoved from behind. A startled squawk escaped as she landed face down in the sandy loam. Turning her head to the side, she could make out the profile of the tall, gangly man who had held her at wand point, the one who looked like a Scarecrow. He dug his boot heel into the small of her back.

“You’re hurting me!”

“Then don’t move, and it won’t get no worse,” replied the other man, the one she had decided to call ‘Stable boy’, since his stench was strongly reminiscent of an ill-kept barn. He knelt beside her prone form, running his hands expertly over her robes and emptying her pockets. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut tightly and endured the search. His hands stopped when they found her wand.

“I’ll just be holding onto this for now, young missy,” he said, pocketing her wand.

“Yeah, it’s not like you’ll need it again, anyhow,” Scarecrow wheezed in amusement.

The song from _The Wizard of Oz_ play that her mum had treated her to last break kept repeating in her mind -- the phrase, ‘If I only had a brain...’ Stable boy was clearly the leader, while Scarecrow seemed to have the I.Q. of a small salad bar without the dressings. So far, neither man had been forthcoming with their purpose in spiriting her away from Hogwarts.

The removal of the boot heel from her spine was a welcome relief. She carefully stood up, brushing the sand from her torn robe, and noticed that both men’s stares were fixed on her clothing.

They regarded her with twinned contempt, a sadistic anticipation glowing dully in their eyes as they took in her Muggle attire.

“No,” Scarecrow said slowly, “I don’t think you’ll be needing your wand back at all.”

All pretence at courtesy was gone. Scarecrow reached for her arm but hesitated as she held her head up and gave him a defiant glare. The jeans and blouse under the school robe might have labelled her a Muggle-born, but she was still a witch.

Stable boy felt no such restraint. He gripped the fabric of her robe tightly and ripped it from her, leaving it to puddle on the ground, snarling, “Your kind don’t deserve robes.”

Without another word, the men dragged the struggling young woman along the cliff path and into the house overlooking the sea.

The house was beautiful; the kind of old, weathered home that her mother would have loved to peek inside while antique hunting. Elaborate wooden scrollwork in white accented the pale blue exterior. It had three levels, the top two having ocean-facing, wrap-around porches. It seemed a strange place for a bastion of darkness.

Up the wooden steps they went, each of her arms encased in the painful grip of one of her captors. Hermione silently berated herself with each tug for her stupidity in stepping outside the school’s bounds, and wished she could reclaim her wand. _How could I have let this happen?_

Although such thoughts, self-recrimination, and fears swirled through her mind, she was already planning her escape. Automatically, she registered the password to the wards on the front door, ‘Deliverance’. She kept as close to Stable boy (and thus her wand) as possible, waiting for any chance.

Inside the large sitting room were a dozen or so adults and children, all clearly in a celebratory mood. A brief wand wave from Stable boy and the music from the Wireless ceased.

“Well, well, look what the cat dragged in,” drawled a dark-haired man with a hateful expression. He seemed unperturbed by the laughter of her captors.

“Did you hear that? What the cat dragged in, indeed!” Scarecrow laughed in a grating, high-pitched tone.

“We found her during our reconnoitre of the school, but there’s a problem,” Stable boy announced.

“What’s the problem?” Tall, Dark and Scary asked. Hermione could not shake the feeling that she should know him.

“We need to get back, so she’s _your_ problem now, Marcus.” With that, Stable boy tossed her wand to one of the on-lookers.

_Of course! Marcus Flint, the Slytherin Team Captain,_ she recalled suddenly. He was older, with a few more scars and missing teeth, but this was undoubtedly her former schoolmate.

Still chortling, the men took their leave.

“Come along, children. Let’s leave this to the adults to sort out, shall we?” A large woman wrapped in a bright red shawl shooed the smaller children out of the main room. Some of the older teenage girls threw looks of pity and sadness Hermione’s way as they followed the others.

Marcus regarded his new problem with interest. Then he turned to the woman in the shawl. “Phyde, go ask He-Who-Killed-The-Phoenix for a phial of Veritaserum. Assure him there is no reason for his presence during the interrogation.”

The woman handed Marcus Hermione’s wand, and proceeded up the stairs. Hermione was shocked when Marcus gently tossed her wand toward her. She missed it, but dropped to the floor to recover it, and stood again immediately, training it on Marcus.

Instantly, the half-dozen adults had wands out and aimed at her.

“Oh, I wouldn’t, my dear. I really wouldn’t,” Marcus cautioned mockingly. “You see, while we wait for our little truth-sayer potion to arrive, I thought that you might indulge me. I don’t believe that those accidental Births of Power among Muggles truly have the reserve of magical strength and abilities that Noble-born magical people do. Care to help test that theory?”

Without warning, he intoned a wicked slicing hex.

After months in the D.A., conjuring a Shield Charm was second nature. What she was unprepared for were the others joining into the fracas. The hail of blows drove her back against the wall.

Ignoring the painful impacts from cutting and burning hexes, she concentrated her will and fear into a single utterance directed at Marcus. “ _Sectumsem --_ ”

“ _Expelliarmus!_ ” multiple voices cried, wrenching the wand from her death grip.

Bruised and bloody, she stood silently, waiting for the answering flash of green light from the wizard facing her. Instead, he strode forward and backhanded her across the face so quickly she did not register the strike until the brutal pain from her nose and cheek radiated along the nerves to her brain. She stared in shock at the blood rapidly soaking her blouse. The room swayed around her, and she dropped to her knees, watching the splatter of blood drops form patterns on the hard wooden floor.

“Force is the only thing these Muggles and their unholy spawn understand,” he lectured those in the room pompously. “And like rabid dogs, they need to be put down lest they infect others.” He raised his hand again, moving in for the killing blow. It never came.

“What do you think you are doing?” enquired a voice she remembered all too well. Chancing a surreptitious peek through the curtain of hair hanging down in her face, she saw the man who had murdered Dumbledore gripping Marcus’ arm.

* * *


	2. Waiting for the Night to Fall

  
Author's notes: Hermione's worst fear is realised. HG/SS centric, Post-HBP.  


* * *

  
_I'm waiting for the night to fall_  
I know that it will save us all  
When everything's dark  
Keeps us from the stark... reality  
-Depeche Mode, Waiting for the Night

**~*~**

"That's enough."

Marcus' hand flicked out. "I need the Veritaserum."

"I don't give wands to children, or dangerous potions to idiots." The deceptively soft voice, so deep and resonant, made her shiver even as she swallowed convulsively, fighting the effects of her body's adrenaline rush. He released Marcus' arm, and brushed past the angry man to kneel beside her. She quickly let her head hang down, obscuring her sight once more.

Resigned to the fact that she could not hide her identity from him, Hermione willed herself not to flinch as his black-clad arm and long fingers came into her field of vision, reaching for her.

She screwed her eyes tightly shut. Despite her mental preparations, she couldn’t fight a sudden sharp intake of breath when his skeletal fingers dug into her throat. She knew he could feel the pounding of her pulse. Tightening his grip, he firmly forced her head up. Bowing to the inevitable, she opened her eyes to find herself being dissected by his cool, indifferent appraisal. Barely inches from him now, she met his gaze with what she sincerely hoped was an expression of condemnation.

It was odd being this close to her former professor, now a murderer. A sweetly pungent scent that seemed somehow familiar washed over her. She could discern flecks of brown in the dark eyes. His touch changed to a gentle caress as he trailed his fingertips along her jaw line before he released his grip on her throat.

His eyes never leaving her accusatory glare, she watched, mesmerised, as his expression became cold and intense. His words were barely more than a low whisper, but she had no doubt that the occupants of the room heard every syllable. His eyes locked on hers, he addressed the wizard standing behind him. "You are a dead man." The tone was soft, menacing and rang with finality.

Tearing her eyes from Snape's, she saw Marcus involuntarily step back, flustered. The observers lolling in the background spread out away from him, not wanting to be caught in the crossfire.

Looking past the man kneeling in front of her, Hermione saw Marcus fumbling about, his wand unsteady. In contrast, Snape's hands were at his sides, empty. He did not seem in the least concerned for his safety.

“I’m the one with the wand, Snape. Everyone else may have bought your sudden bravery, but I know better....” Marcus babbled on, clearly unaware that Snape was allowing him enough verbal rope to hang himself. _Not that there would be much of a wait_ , Hermione thought, judging by the muscles flexing involuntarily along Snape’s jaw line.

“These people are under _my_ protection, Snape. Try to wrap your impregnable mind around the fact that we are no longer captive school children, open to humiliation from a sadistic son of a whore.”

The hem of Snape’s robes brushed against Hermione’s face, startling her as he rose, pivoting to face her tormenter.

“It _is_ a wonder that they made it this long,” Snape remarked.

Hermione quickly scanned the faces of those who would witness this impending disaster. Surprisingly, their expressions were full of rapt adoration for the sharp-featured Potions master, the Dark Lord's newly proclaimed hero of the wizarding world. She guessed not one of them would intervene to save Marcus Flint.

Snape apparently thought so as well. He strode past Flint, robe billowing, over to the sideboard where he accepted a proffered drink from Phyde, the woman with the red shawl. She seemed openly amused at Marcus' predicament.

“I suppose you expect me to defend my actions, but I won’t. Not to someone like _you_.” Marcus was visibly shaking now, whether from fear or rage, Hermione could not tell.

“On the contrary, Mr. Flint. I do not expect anything of the kind because there is no defence for your abject stupidity. Shall I begin with your inexcusable lapse in security? The wards of this sanctuary are weakened to the point of collapse by the use of needless magic, Mr. Flint. I felt them struggling to remain intact while you repeatedly hexed an unarmed girl. Perhaps you were using her as a prelude to battling the Aurors who would soon arrive _should these wards fail?_ ”

Although his back was turned to her, she could well imagine the sneer present on his face, as he continued.

“Furthermore, you do realise you have endangered all who have sought refuge here to serve Our Lord, by instructing your stalwart minions _to bring detainees to the safe house?”_ he asked incredulously.

Hermione swallowed nervously. His tone and manner as he inadvertently shielded her from Marcus indicated that he had lapsed into the role of preceptor as he continued to denigrate the young man.

“And what do your miserable excuse for minions bring? An Auror? A member of the Order of the Phoenix? A Ministry of Magic official? No. They bring us a child!”

Marcus’ face flushed as red as Neville Longbottom’s would during a dressing down in Potions class. Some of the men were openly smirking at him now as Snape continued to heap abuse on the former Slytherin Captain.

“Pray tell, what vital information do you think she can provide? That people are sad over Dumbledore's death? Or perhaps there may be a surprise Arithmancy exam on the morrow?”

The two wizards circled one another warily, the fear in Flint's expression increasing as he read the intent in Snape's eyes. “A student, Mr. Flint. You have presented us with a Hogwarts student! And of all the students in Hogwarts, _you chose my servant!"_ Snape spat out, fully showing his anger.

A woman's laugh broke the tense silence.

“Your _what?!?_ ” Hermione blinked rapidly, her unintelligible protest dying in her throat as Snape’s eyes flickered to hers for the briefest moment, his features remaining coldly composed, his expression unreadable.

“But, unlike you, Mr. Flint, I am not one to brood over past incidents,” he continued in a dangerously reasonable tone, focusing everyone’s attention away from her and onto the wizard before him. “I do, however, recall quite clearly some of this humiliation of which you speak.”

Marcus froze, now stopped directly in front of her. She could see his shoulders spasm with the strain of keeping his wand trained on Snape, while his head darted from side to side searching for a way out of this confrontation.

“Let us speak about humiliation. You were caught cheating, and when accused, tried to plant your crib sheets on an innocent student. How right you are that I stood you on your feet and told the class what you had done.”

“You always were a cold bastard, Snape. Had you no compassion for a frightened and desperate boy? Did you even care what my father would do to me when you sent that owl?” Marcus snapped back.

“I had a great deal more sympathy for the boy who would have been expelled, through no fault of his own had I not seen what you did. But neither sympathy nor compassion can be handed out like lemon drops,” he spat out the name of the confection with distaste, meeting her gaze once more. “The recipient must be worthy of such treatment.”

“He was a Hufflepuff!” Marcus shrieked, losing the last of his emotional control. “Who the fuck cared if he failed the class, _I was one of yours and you let that senile bastard Dumbledore expel me!”_ Catching his breath, Marcus continued, “You might as well have killed me that day! At least Dumbledore never saw it coming.”

“Neither of you deserved compassion for stupidity,” Snape informed him mockingly.

Hermione pulled herself up from the floor slowly, leaning against the wall for support, and prepared to dart out of the way. Would the wards withstand another barrage of strong spell casting? The elevated tension in the room made it clear that everyone was convinced an exchange was inevitable. Marcus was practically backing into her, forced ever closer to the wall by Snape's relentless verbal barrage. Sliding along the wall, she could see greasy trails of sweat running down the side of his neck, and the mucus bubbling from his nostrils as he pressed fully against the wall. She prayed the wards would fall, that help would arrive before attention returned to her. He was close enough to grab her for a shield if he thought of it.

"I offer you a second chance at redemption," Snape said, his voice louder, cold fury barely suppressed. An ominous silence descended upon the gathering once more.

Marcus tried for an angry grimace, but only ended up looking as if he might vomit. He remained mute in the face of Snape's offer.

There was no second warning. Moving with incredible speed, using a draw that must have taken endless hours to perfect, Snape whipped his wand out of his sleeve, aimed, and incanted. The hex obliterated Flint's nose, the force of the spell sending a volcanic gush of blood and shards of nasal bone to splash Hermione across the face and neck as his convulsive flailing knocked her off her feet.

Two of the watchers moved forward to wrest the screaming man off the floor where he had fallen. Another man, carrying a gleaming silver bowl, placed it directly beneath the gaping wound to collect the blood.

The wetness she felt was rapidly cooling, leaving icy trails across her skin. Hermione wiped at her cheek, only to smear more of the viscous fluid over her skin. It covered her hands, her blouse, and she could even feel some of it solidifying and clotting in her hair. The smell was nauseating – rich, cloying, and salty, as it mingled with the drying remnants of her own spilled blood from Marcus’ slap.

In the moments following the attack, everyone seemed stunned, and then one of the men extended his hand to help her off the floor. Sensing the reason for her hesitation, he smiled reassuringly. His voice was gentle, reminiscent of Professor Lupin’s, but completely at odds with the words he spoke. “You have nothing to fear from us, child. We also serve the Dark Lord.”

She accepted his help, and rose to her feet. Glancing to her left she saw Marcus was now being tended to, his guttural choking sounds growing weaker.

Standing in the centre of the great room, the architect of this horrific scene watched the efforts of the women mending Flint. It was only a matter of moments before he turned his attention to her, Hermione knew. She saw her wand lying on the sideboard next to the water pitcher on the other side of the room. She was gauging the distance even as she saw his gaze fix on her.

In one quick motion, he crossed the expanse and was pinning her against the wall, laying his bare hands on her shoulders, paying no attention to the gore-stiffened material. She could feel the heat from his hands through the thin cotton blouse. The sickly-sweet scent of liquorice surrounding him was overpowering to her newly hightened senses.

“Where is it?” he demanded, his lips parted, teeth bared in anger or annoyance, she did not know.

“I-I don’t know,” she sputtered.

His hands shifted to her throat with a gentle pressure, eyes boring into hers, silently commanding her acquiescence; she could not look away.

Hermione felt a wave of heat wash over her skin and blood sang in her ears as the room grew unbearably hot. She could feel her panic recede, and from somewhere else, a thought not her own was given form. “I left it behind,” Not-Hermione replied. “It kept slipping off.”

With that admission, the spell was broken, and with a dizzying psychic rush, Hermione was back in her own head. Snape released her throat with a snort of disgust. Reaching into his robes, he made a theatrical show of producing a thin silver ring, etched with a serpent. Seizing her hand, he shoved it roughly on to her finger. “You brought all of this... unpleasantness upon yourself today, girl. You were told that no person on the side of the cause would harm you while you wear my ring. Now for once, do as you are bid, and, _keep your mouth shut.”_

“Clean her up,” he said, turning to Phyde. “She may yet prove of some use today.”

As Snape began his low intonation and rhythmic wand movements to restore the house wards, Phyde led Hermione up the wooden staircase.  
 **~*~**  



	3. Parchment and Prevarication

  
Author's notes: Ch 3: HG/SS centric. Hermione finds that there are some things you can't outrun.  


* * *

_Crux est si metuas quod vincere nequeas_

~*~

Hermione ran down the cobblestone alleyway, clutching the two sections of her wand in a death grip, the nails on her right hand broken and bleeding.

She felt the hot, throbbing pain radiate through her hand, helping her to remain conscious. The night's downpour did little to muffle the sounds of her shoes scuffing across the stones, echoing off the closed shutters of the shops. Choking silently through the mass pressing against the back of her throat, she could not help clawing at her mouth and neck for the air her exertion demanded. She stopped for a moment as a wave of vertigo passed over her

Regaining her balance, she darted into the Stygian darkness between the dimmed street lamps and past a well-lit intersection. She fought to clear her mind from the effects of the hex.

The feeling of unseen watchers persisted, but glancing behind, she saw no one. She could almost feel the shadows reaching toward her, shadows born from panic and accentuated by the drugs. There would be someone monitoring where she went, there had to be.

He had meant to scare her badly enough to run through the weakened wards of the safe house and straight to the new location of the Order. She had no intention of going anywhere near it while they were watching. Where, then? The longer she stayed on the streets, the greater chance that she might be caught and returned to _him_.... She fought down a sob in her throat. _Stop it!_ she hissed mentally. _You are a Gryffindor. Now, think!_

She stopped running, and flattened against the wall. ‘Poor little Gryffindor. So lost, so helpless. Is there no book for this?’ the disembodied sneer of her former Potions instructor came back to her, as it often did in times of stress. 'Assess the situation, Miss Granger.'

_I'm scared, and I'm running – from you_ , she whispered back. _I've been hexed, I've been...._ She began to shake, sinking to the kerb as the tears ran freely down her cheeks. _Oh, God, help me, don't make me go back!_

She paused, taking deep calming breaths. _You're okay, you're okay..._ she breathed over and over as a mantra. Off to her left, there was a muffled shout, and the sound of glass breaking. They were coming for her. She had to get to a safe place, but where? If she could not get to the Order for help, what else was open to her? She could feel the effects of the drugs begin to peak as she got back up and started to run.

The alleyway twisted and turned through the maze of wizarding London, the rain and her growing confusion narrowing her focus to the area immediately in front of her. Her headlong dash came to an abrupt end as she rounded the turn and impacted flesh-covered stone.

“Oi! Watch it! You almos’ made me drop anothe’ one....” The feel of his hands gripping her shoulders brought back the recent memory of Snape doing the same thing. Her scream came out a hiss, as her lungs forced breath past the obstruction in her throat. Pushing him away, she fell backward onto the wet pavement and heard a distinctive _crunch_.

“Oh, now you’ve gone an’ done it; I won’ get no deposit back on tha’ now, will I wh’ wit you sittin’ on it like tha.”

Crablike, she scurried backward on hands and feet through the broken glass and spilt spirits, until the wall was firmly at her back.

“Hey, I won’ hurt cha -- c’mon an’ have a pint wit me,” he called after her, as she quickly scrambled to her feet and felt along the wall. Her vision was narrowing to a tunnel, colours and sounds blurring together, as she stumbled in through the pub’s doorway.

~*~

“Hermione? Can you hear me? Give her another sip of the tea, Minerva.” Strong arms supported her back while a warm cup was pressed to her lips. The smell was ghastly, and the taste reminiscent of hot ammonia.

“That’s right, Miss Granger, a bit more, now....” Hermione recognised the worried tone in her Head of House’s voice. Feeling weaker than a newborn kitten she opened her eyes and raised a hand to push the arm away, but only succeeded in sloshing the noxious liquid onto her shirt.

“Ahhhhg,” was all she could manage. Though her throat felt clear, she couldn’t make her lips and tongue cooperate to form words.

“I think she’s telling us where to shove the tea cup,” Tonks remarked, lowering Hermione back fully onto the couch.

Minerva handed the cup to the hovering Arthur Weasley while scowling her disapproval. "Don't try to talk yet, Miss Granger." Professor McGonagall's voice sounded more confident now that her charge was awake. "We removed the parchment but there may be some damage to your vocal cords."

_Yes, prolonged screaming will do that._ Hermione closed her eyes for a long moment, willing her emotions to remain under control for just a bit longer. _Wait a minute, she said 'parchment'. Was that what he shoved in my mouth?_

Her questioning look was not missed.

Stepping from behind the couch with his characteristic clunk of the wooden leg against the bare floor, Moody thrust a tattered piece of parchment in front of her. It was stained with bloody sputum. “Who did this?” he demanded.

Looking at Moody in annoyance, Minerva replied for her. “She can’t very well answer, Alastor.”

Tonks produced a small writing tablet, and an honest-to-goodness felt-tipped pen. At Hermione’s incredulous look, she laughed. “They’re easier to write with in the field.”

Arthur Weasley ducked forward to slip a book under the paper to serve as a writing surface.

~*~

Having so many people crowded over her was not helping her struggle for emotional control. Tonks noticed her trembling hand as she began to write, and waved everyone to back off a bit, leaving only Moody standing over her.

_’Prof. Snape’_ , she scrawled labouriously with her swollen right hand.

“Snape!” Moody roared. “I knew that bastard was still around! He’s just made us poison her!”

“Perhaps we _should_ move her to the third floor...” Tonks said.

“Nonsense, why would he send us the antidote, only to cause her more harm?” Minerva questioned. “The tea has obviously done her some good.”

Unwatched for the moment, Hermione picked up the piece of parchment from the blanket where Moody had let it fall. Smoothing it, she could decipher a list of ingredients to be brewed in warm water, written in a very shaky script.

“That doesn’t look like his handwriting,” Arthur observed, peering over her shoulder at the note.

_’His right hand is broken’_ , she wrote.

“Good, any life-threatening injuries?” Moody asked after Arthur read her note aloud.

_’I don’t think so,’_ she scribbled quickly.

She thought angrily, _He took my wand before I could do more._

“ _You_ broke his hand?” Minerva gasped in surprise, staring at Hermione, reading the expression of hatred mixed with satisfaction that had passed through her eyes.

Now Tonks was staring at her appraisingly. “Are you kidding me? You really got close enough to do that to him?”

She smirked at Hermione’s hesitant nod of confirmation.

“I think we should all take a moment and calm down,” Arthur placated Minerva and Moody, placing a hand soothingly on both. “It seems as though Hermione has a tale to tell -- and then we’ll proceed from there.”

_The problem is,_ she mused, _how much can I tell them? They can never know what really happened._  


* * *

  
A/N: Once again, thanks to Ariadne, Minuet99 and amr. If it weren't for these ladies, this first attempt at HP fic would still be in my 'delete' file. All errors are mine.


End file.
